The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

His tempests were always a source of deep trouble and dejection to him. That incomprehensible womanishness that lived within him he half despised and half deplored. When she was uppermost, she was pitiable enough. Her high, wailing voice roused the dreariest echoes among the surrounding rocks; and one hearing them might have fancied himself listening to a chorus of damned souls wandering along the road to Kutashala Mali. This weaker spirit used, in the beginning, to be roused by the thunderstorms which, from time to time, raged across the heights. With the first hissing fire-streak that crossed the sky, Oman’s frame would be shaken by a quiver of terror, and he would cower away into his rude habitation, and, covering his face, remain moaning and trembling with every crash, every blaze of lightning, every fresh onslaught of cold rain. To him it was as if these phenomena brought back some experience of the dimly veiled past, when, in words that smote his ears like the near thunder itself, he had heard pronounced on him a doom, and had thenceforth been plunged into deepest night.

After the passing of the storm, when the stars came radiantly forth upon the newly refreshed sky, or the sun shone through an upstretched, radiant bow, there would steal upon the stricken creature of the cave a sense of comfort and consolation almost repaying the evil hour of fear. At such times, Oman would put away his sense of wretchedness and shame; and his heart would open out in praise. What he should praise, whom, which of the gods his life had known, he could not tell. None of them all—Siva, Vishnu, Indra, not the Buddha himself—could satisfy his new, groping sense. But the searching, seeking, wondering after the unknown, the greatly desired, usually led him back into his state of meditation, where he could claim himself again a man.

In the end, it was this search that brought him into the kingdom. Brahman born, a Vedic student, instructed also in the three great philosophic systems, and, later, introduced to Buddhism, he had at hand a great fund of religion, and a variety of hypotheses on which to meditate. As soon as he began to perceive that he must find some creed to lean upon, he set to work consistently to analyze and compare these different systems. And from that time, when he felt himself occupied with a real work, the tempests of his unconquered self came less often, and were far less fierce, till, by degrees, they ceased entirely, and he found himself master of his solitude. Now, truth began to disclose herself to him. Gradually he discovered that he understood a few things. He perceived life to be a period of trial and probation. The beginning and the end are good. One comes into the world innocent, pure at heart, untroubled by sordid doubts and fears. One leaves it calmly, having ceased to desire the things of life. In the interval many phases hold possession of the soul: ambitions of various kinds (lusts and loves, for which one pays with blood and tears), and the worshipping of many idols. But one by one these break and crumble away. Men perceive that they are false, and cease to search for them; and their lack—the loss of riches, power, even love,—are not to be felt as evils. The soul is self-sufficient if it know its god. This is the story of life.

Afterwards came higher considerations:—cause, purpose, natural law, finality. Deep were Oman’s meditations on these matters, and strange the answers that he found. The twenty-five principles of the philosophy of Kapila he reduced to two—matter and essence. From the combination of these the universe has risen. The great fountain of Spirit, situate in the heart of the rolling worlds, sends forth a constant spray, each drop of which is a soul, which, entering a material form, begins its long pilgrimage back, through imprisoning matter, into the fountain-head again. Into such form, after long and troubled study, did Oman work his truths; and then, still unsatisfied with the infinitude of existence involved in the idea, sought further solution to unsolvable things.

Six, seven, eight years went by; and Oman was no longer young. Yet his appearance was still not that of a man. His face was without any trace of beard; nor was his expression one borne by world-dwellers. His eyes glowed with an inward fire. There were certain lines about his mouth and eyes that gave his features the droop of constant melancholy. His form was tall and gaunt; but his fine skin was still untoughened by exposure to sun and wind. Save for a cloth about the loins, he now went unclothed, unconscious of nakedness, exposed to no observing eyes. His muscles stood well up on his lean body, for he was a tiller of the soil. In his whole life there on the mountain he had never known one day’s sickness; nor did it occur to him to consider health in the light of good or evil. His solitude had effect on him in infinite ways; but he kept himself from forgetting speech by frequently talking aloud. His thoughts, however, were not at all those of men. He made companions out of the natural objects round him, and regarded the phenomena of nature as beautiful scenes in which he himself had a part. He called greetings to the rising sun and to the moon, which looked on him with jovial, distorted face. Wild creatures that lived in the lower woods—bears, small, burrowing animals, even snakes, moved near him without fear and without any threat of battle. During his long residence in the open, he had never knowingly injured a single sentient thing; and for this his reward came in the shape of companionship with the wild. The tenth year of his mountain solitude had passed, when, suddenly, all things were changed for him.

In some mysterious way, how, cannot be explained, for the rumor could have had no other origin than the wind, it was spread among the scattering mountain villages that, on the summit of the Silver Peak, there dwelt a Chelah, or hermit, of great holiness and wonderful powers. And thereupon pilgrimages thither began.

The meeting of Oman and the first stranger that penetrated his solitude was unique. It was more than ten years since Oman had looked upon the face of one of his kind or heard the sound of any voice other than his own. He had for a long time felt neither need nor desire for companionship; and his mind had become quite deadened to the necessity of reëntering the world. One afternoon, returning from a short walk down the eastern slope after fruit, he found himself face to face with a man, standing near the entrance of his cave, who, seeing him, began to prostrate himself rapidly. Oman stopped perfectly still, looking at him with wonderment in his face. After a while, seeing that the holy one did not speak, the man began:

“O most excellent, reverend sir, accept my worshipful homage of your learning and holiness. I am come to ask of you the fate of my wife, who is sick of the white plague. All doctors I have rejected, and come to you, on the top of this amazingly high mountain, to ask your aid. And, that I may not seem to be wanting in reverence, I bring with me a jade anklet,—which may the reverend One accept!” and forthwith he proffered his gift.

Oman looked at him long and steadfastly, striving to master the emotions that were welling up within him, the foremost of which seemed to be acute displeasure. He hesitated also to speak; for he realized, on listening to the speech of the man, that his own articulation had become almost unrecognizably altered. An answer seemed, however, to be a necessity; so, presently, he nerved himself to the effort, and said, slowly, with great difficulty:

“Do not bow down before me, O man, nor before any being like yourself. Return to your wife and keep your place beside her bed; nor neglect to obtain doctors for her in her sickness. I will not take your gift, for what need have I of jade? Return to your dwelling and trouble me no more.”